


meet hennessy

by izzylizardborn



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater, The Dreamer Trilogy - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Call Down the Hawk Spoilers, Canon Backstory, Character Study, Gen, WOW it's hard to tag these girls. uh. anyway. it's about hennessy & jordan.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-21
Updated: 2019-11-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 16:40:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21511450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/izzylizardborn/pseuds/izzylizardborn
Summary: Hennessy had seen movies. She knew how this went. When it came to clones, there was always a good one and an evil one.She didn’t need to wonder which was which.[A Hennessy character study.]
Relationships: Hennessy & Jordan
Comments: 36
Kudos: 75





	meet hennessy

**Author's Note:**

> tw for suicide and death, as this fic follows hennessy through losing her mother. 
> 
> title from [this](https://gaybluesargent.tumblr.com/post/188939454871/maggie-stiefvater-this-is-the-only-ronan-trilogy)!
> 
> and thank you so much to [lesbiandeniceford](https://lesbiandeniceford.tumblr.com/) & [tempestaurora](https://tempestaurora.tumblr.com/) for the britishisms and general guidance, and alf [berniefeinman](https://berniefeinman.tumblr.com/) for the beta! y'all really helped make it work and i rly appreciate it!!

Jordan Hennessy was heating a late-night pastry when she heard the jazz. Nothing about it was unusual — Jay liked jazz. She liked to fight to jazz, and fuck to jazz, and at this hour of the night, it could’ve been either. It wasn’t even unusual for Jordan to be awake to hear it. She was a natural night-owl, never an especially sound sleeper, always staving off tomorrow for as long as she could. 

“It’s bad for you,” Jay had told her once, about her sleep habits. Then she’d handed her a cigarette, and they’d smoked together, until Jay floated away to her studio.

The jazz was normal. The night was normal. It was the normalest night Jordan could’ve imagined, except that she didn’t think her parents were home. She hadn’t seen them — which wasn’t unusual either, really, since they rarely went out of their way to see her. But she usually did a good job listening for the garage. 

Maybe it was an intruder. Strange intruder, to break into a house and turn on some jazz, but Jordan had seen stranger things. And if it wasn’t an intruder, well, she had a field trip slip for Jay to sign anyway. Her class was going to the National Gallery. She’d gone plenty of times, but maybe it’d cheer Jay to reminisce, or bolster her to pick on the other famous artists there. Jay always needed one or the other — cheering or bolstering. It was rare Jordan was any good at providing either, but. Well. Maybe it was an intruder.

She left the pastry in the microwave and went upstairs. Listened at the door for voices or breaths. She heard none and started to consider ghosts when she pushed open the door. 

Jay was home, it turned out. And she was standing in her closet with all the lights off, holding a gun. She was not distressed, or upset, or crying, though her mascara proved she had been at one point. Now, she was calm. Now, she just looked at Jordan.

Now, she just looked disappointed.

Jordan’s silhouette fell over the scene, stretched from behind, her shadow head over her mother’s heart. “Mum?”

“You won’t miss me.”

The jazz swelled, crackled. “Wait.”

_Bang._

Jordan Hennessy had lost a goldfish before. A cat. An uncle. And that’s exactly what it was — loss. Like she’d been in a hurry, put their lives down somewhere odd, misplaced them. Left the back door open and let them scurry out. Swept them up in the hoover. Sometimes she’d miss them for a bit, a pang, an inconvenience, but it was just a little absence, a hunger easily filled with sweets or distraction, an ache hidden by a pinch.

As it turned out, death was something different entirely. Not loss, not the _after_ , not the part that mattered to the living. Death as its own thing, as the final thing, was nothing like loss at all.

It was black and grey and maroon instead of white. Naked, but not too naked — tasteful, marketable. The gun hadn’t quite fallen out of her hand, and it formed a little triangle against her thigh, an eye in the storm, dark and bloodless. A stark opposition to the blood was on the wall, splattered and streaky, and behind the place where the top of her head should’ve been, pools and puddles. It caked her hair with a high-gloss sheen, catching light from the doorway.

It was art.

In that way, at least, it made sense. Her mother was always trying to make art.

The business made less sense. The decisions. She had the phone in her hand and had to choose — Call Bill? Call the police?

She called the police, because right then, she hated Bill too much to speak to him. But then the police came, well-dressed, well-armored, and she hated them too. They kept asking her questions. Reassuring her. Herding her, out and away. There was so much tidy effort to it all. Like _We’re the authorities. We’re trained for this._

Jordan Hennessy was a lot of things — a talented but unambitious young person, an unobtrusive rebel with no particular cause, mature for her age in all the wrong ways — but she was not trained for this. She allowed herself to be shuffled outside. It was a biting midnight, mid-January, and the backyard was dead and all of London was dead and Jay was dead. Someone tried to put a blanket around her shoulders and she hurled it away, preferring the numb. Someone hung in the doorway, keeping an eye on her. In case of what, Jordan didn’t know. Was she meant to be running away? Screaming? She couldn’t do anything but sit there and shiver. Tremble. Shake. She wondered if she’d ever stop, or if that was just life after you watched your mother shoot herself in the brain. Maybe your hands just always shook. Maybe your ears just always rang. Maybe you never felt a damn thing ever again.

They came with more questions. _Where’s your dad right now? Can we give him a call? Do you know where she kept her mobile? Her purse? Do you know her wishes? Was she religious?_

Jordan blinked. “What?”

“Your mother — what did she believe in?”

 _Dreams_ , she wanted to say, _because she was a fool._

Jordan was not a fool. If she was, she’d be shocked. But she wasn’t, not really. Horrified. Disgusted. Perhaps _in_ shock, medically. But not shocked. Jay was an artist. She’d go out with a bang.

Jordan was an artist, too. It was the only thing Jay had ever taught her.

By the time it was done, all the red-blue-purple lights and the static of walkie-talkie and the hideous bureaucracy of it all, Hennessy wanted nothing more than to go to sleep.

The sun was just starting to rise through her window. Even with the blinds drawn, even just around the edges, it was beautiful. Rosy pink and champagne and crystal, bringing edge and face and shadow to everything it touched.

It was the prettiest, wrongest thing Jordan had ever seen.

She shut her eyes and dreamt of the opposite.

*

She hadn’t brought the thing back. Watching herself from above, she could see that much. Some small part of her was relieved. In the slanted light of dawn, it was just her.

Probably she was dead.

The nightmare couldn’t have her, so it killed her. It’d seen her, and wanted her, and she’d said _no thank you_ , and it killed her. That made sense. Some small part of her was relieved by that, too. She knew she was headed for it. Hadn’t expected it quite so soon, but, well, there were all those myths about death happening in threes, so maybe Jay was One and she was Two and Bill would be Three and the whole ugly blot of them could be done with this. Exit stage right. Curtain. Polite applause.

But then the pain came. She was pricked at every nerve ending, from skin straight down to bone.

She opened her eyes, back in her body.

She was still staring at herself.

Herself stared back. Jordan’s brows drew together and the expression spread to the other her. They were laying side-by-side, mummies in a tomb, mirrored images. But Jordan had her hand wrapped around the other Jordan’s wrist, fingers locked like a scream. She uncoiled her fingers and pulled away and it hurt, bone-scraping, skin-stretching, a humiliating little whimper as she folded her arms into her chest, touched at her throat, felt stinging and a slick of blood.

The other girl didn’t mimic. She just kept staring, that puzzled look on her face, even as Jordan’s vision pulsed and dulled with pain. So much pain that it took a moment to swim through. Her lungs worked forcefully toward the surface.

In that time, the new girl sat up. Touched the bedsheets. Looked around. The confusion intensified, spreading from her brows to her lips, her shoulders. “Jordan?” she asked Jordan, in Jordan’s voice.

“That’s me,” Jordan said weakly, though she was no longer sure it was true. Or at least, not entirely. Something had been taken from her, in that nightmare. That thing had taken it. It had tried to take _her_.

At the last moment, she had taken herself instead.

She looked up into this new Jordan’s eyes. She was lit from behind like an angel. “I’m sorry,” she said to this other her.

The new girl had questions. A hundred of them. A thousand. Jordan knew she did, because Jordan had them too. But the new girl just asked, “Why?”

Jordan laughed. A bark. A death rattle. Pain shot up her spine but she stuck on a smile anyway. “‘Cause you’re me, and that’s no fate for such a pretty girl.”

*

Jordan had seen movies. She knew how this went. When it came to twins, clones, there was always a good one and an evil one.

She didn’t need to wonder which was which.

As it turned out, she was bleeding from her skin. Not anywhere in particular — just the organ in general. The new girl went to the bathroom and got a towel. Went to the kitchen and got a glass of water. She didn’t have to ask which cabinet, which cupboard; she knew where everything was. She brought back ibuprofen, too. One and a half, just like Jordan liked.

“Blood thinner,” the new girl said to Jordan as she handed over the pills, “Bad idea.”

Jordan nodded because she’d been thinking just the same. But she took the pills anyway, because the pain was bad, and if she was going to bleed to death, at least there’d be another her to arrange a proper funeral.

They debriefed. Jordan grilled the new girl on memories. Name of her nemesis from primary school. _Josh_. Name of her first crush. _Jasmine. What is it with the J names?_ Favorite color. _Luscious._ It was not technically a color, but it was the name of a special kind of purple in a tin in Jay’s studio. Once, Jordan had smeared it over her mouth like lipstick and it had tasted like salt and cinnamon.

If they were the same, then they had this in common: They did not want to talk about Jay. So that was the end of the questioning.

This new girl did not try to be the original, did not try to argue that she was the one who had been born instead of made. Each time she opened her mouth, she seemed surprised to find she knew what to say. Though their bodies were the same, she used hers more gingerly. Held things with her fingertips. Sat on her ankles instead of her ass. Jordan herself was not this delicate, was she? No, she wasn’t, she couldn’t be, she piloted her body for bruises, for keeps. Was that what her smile looked like, really? She didn’t think it was, but smiles were different when done into a mirror.

The new girl was uncanny. A trip on something good that went somewhere bad. But the shadows grew toward midday, and the ibuprofen kicked in, and the door to the house opened and closed a few times somewhere far far away, and all signs pointed to this being real life.

“Remember the Super Soaker? The one in the ads, and Bill said no ‘cause it was too messy and we didn’t have a pool, and I wanted it anyway?” The new girl nodded. There was no reason to tell the story if they had the same memories, but she had to say it out loud. Finally, finally, say it out loud. “Wanted it so bad I woke up with it in my hand?”

The new girl put on a wry smile. “Does that make you a narcissist?”

“Surprise, surprise.” Jordan had no choice but to be a narcissist. Her parents were too busy gazing at each other to spare her a glance. For a while, she’d tried screaming for attention, but it mostly just made her throat sore, so she’d given up and decided she’d watch out for herself if nobody else was going to. 

Now that Jay was done — like a firework show, grand finale, the sky darker than before with smoke trails — maybe Bill would pack up his picnic and start giving a shit about Jordan.

Maybe, yesterday or a year ago, there was a Jordan who could’ve let her father in. A Jordan who wanted him, and her mother, and love and a family and to be seen and understood and unalone.

Staring at the new girl, it seemed too late for that.

“Guess I always wanted a sister,” Jordan said.

The new girl snorted.

They both pretended Jordan was not on the brink of tears.

Down the hall, someone called for Jordan. It wasn’t Bill. Maybe a cousin. A concerned neighbor. Whoever it was, they didn’t matter. _Jordan. Jordan._

The new girl looked to the door. The closet. Underneath the bed. She asked, “Should I hide?”

Jordan shook her head, dragged her hand down her face. She was a mess — rumpled, bloody, ears still ringing from the gunshot, feeling like a fresh-born demon. The solution was obvious and almost too easy. This new girl was perfect. “You be Jordan.”

“But then who will you be?”

She rooted for the answer and broke her nails on bedrock. What did you call the ugly part? The dregs at the bottom of the glass? The genes you can’t outlive? Her voice came out ragged, torn. “Y’know, I think I’ll just be Hennessy.”

*

Jordan came back hours later with a peanut butter sandwich and a ginger ale. Her eyes were puffed, pink.

“What?” Hennessy asked, though she knew what.

“Chopping onions,” Jordan said.

Hennessy had spent a while thinking about it while Jordan was out there, being her. Was Jay this new girl’s mother too? Maybe she _remembered_ her, but she’d never _met_ her. That seemed important. Now, face-to-face with it, Hennessy realized she would’ve been furious to hear that Jordan was crying over Jay. Hennessy hadn’t even done that yet. Hennessy didn’t plan to. 

There was a thin reed of satisfaction in it, though. To know that there was a version of her that wasn’t her mother’s daughter.

“How’re the onions, then?”

“Chopped.” Jordan sat down at the foot of the bed and yanked her headband out of her hair, scrubbed her fingers through it to return it to its shape. “It’s miserable. Do you actually want me to tell you about it?”

Hennessy bristled. No, she didn’t, but she wasn’t used to being called on her bluff, so she doubled down. “I asked, didn’t I?”

“Neighbors were wailing about how much they loved her. Reminisced about the time she hid in their rose bush and then yelled at them about the thorns. They saw her just yesterday, coming back from a shopping spree. Did you know people are alive until they aren’t? They didn’t, I guess, because they were just so _confused_.” Jordan held a hand to her heart and pretended to wilt like a daisy.

Hennessy huffed around the lump in her chest. “Twats.”

“Anyway. Guess somebody finally got ahold of Bill. He’s back. Started calling everyone. Wanted me— or you, or, whatever— Wanted us to help make arrangements.”

“And?” Her blood felt warm, or too much, like it might start leaking through her seams again.

“Told him my contribution was watching her pull the trigger.” Jordan paused. Gave Hennessy a long look. _Should I stop now?_ it asked.

Hennessy didn’t blink.

“He wanted to know if she said anything about him. Before. Or after. I said she cried out another man’s name. He’s going through the phonebook, ready to exact revenge on every Greg in Britain. But then Jay reappeared wearing the Queen’s jewels and now they’re having ghost sex on the kitchen table.”

The air came out of Hennessy like she’d ruptured. But there was no explosion, nothing but empty air and the distinct sensation of feeling smaller than before. “Fuck off.”

“Would love to, but you’re in my room, sis.”

Hennessy scowled and scooted over. Jordan shimmied down beside her. Hennessy had never had someone else move around her so effortlessly, share her space so easily. She thought it should’ve been weirder than it was, especially given that this person was also technically herself.

Her eyeballs hurt from behind, like a toothache. She couldn’t think about this anymore or her brain was going to fracture.

But Jordan had eyes on her. She touched the fresh flower tattoo on Hennessy’s throat. “Sick new ink.”

Right. She’d seen it in the mirror when she’d gotten up to piss. She didn’t know what it meant or why. She knew she’d have to get Jordan one to match if they were going to pass as each other. “I’m too tired for this shit.”

“I can handle Bill. Sleep.”

Hennessy’s shoulders straightened. “You don’t remember?”

“Remember what?”

For the first time, Hennessy laughed. Really, really laughed.

“I love a joke,” Jordan said. “Let me in on it.”

Of course. Jordan got everything else — the memories, the history, the Jordanness — but Hennessy alone had to keep that. The nightmare. The thing. The fear. Her heart clenched at just the thought. Her skin prickled. Her eyes burned. “I can’t sleep,” she said, “I won’t do it.”

Jordan shrugged. “Fine. Then I won’t either.”

“Am I this daft?”

“No, but you are this stubborn.” Jordan leaned across Hennessy’s lap to snatch the remote off the end-table and flipped on the TV. _Misfits_ was on TV and after an episode, the air eased. Jordan cracked a joke, and then Hennessy did too. Three times out of four, they said the same thing at the same time.

But Jordan laughed easier. Like the jokes were funnier. Like they were the first jokes she’d ever heard.

*

Hennessy asked Jordan to go to the funeral in her place.

Technically, she didn’t ask. She _told_ her to go. But it didn’t make a difference. Sometimes it was infuriating to have someone who saw straight through her bullshit, but sometimes it made things so easy. She didn’t have to bother with politeness; she barely had to open her mouth. Jordan just knew. And she did a really good job being Jordan when Hennessy wasn’t interested in it.

So Jordan put on a black dress and did it.

Meanwhile, Hennessy flossed her teeth. Played a dusty old video game for exactly fourteen minutes before deciding it was more interesting in pieces than as a single functional object. Forged her mother’s signature on the week-old field trip form. Picked up a paint brush and put it down. Picked it up. Put it down. Maybe she’d accidentally given Jordan the part of her that knew how to make art. Not that Jordan was putting it to any use herself.

Hours later, Jordan returned, kicking her heels into a pile and tearing the dress from her body like it was made of flames.

“That good, huh?” Hennessy asked from her place on the bed, surrounded by balled-up sheets and broken-down bits of Sega Genesis.

“It was beautiful,” Jordan said, “and profitable. They were selling her paintings in the foyer.”

“Did they call her by her name?”

“J.H.”

Christ. Even in death she was an elusive bitch. Maybe death had made her more beautiful to Bill, to everyone else, but to Henenssy, it’d done the opposite. It made her mother a flimsy cardboard thing, easy to be furious at. They never talked about the dreaming. If she were still here, would this be cause to break the silence? Despite the comparison, Jordan was not a Super Soaker. She wasn’t even a clone, not really. She was a person. Hennessy still didn’t understand how she had made a _person_. Or what the hell that thing in her dream had been. Or what the hell they were supposed to do now.

She supposed it could be easy. Hand Jordan the keys to her life and lay in bed til she died. Except that wouldn’t work, because her ferret had been comatose since Jay blew her head off. So she had to keep breathing, at least. And if she had to keep breathing, she might as well keep living. It was like being abruptly promoted to motherhood. She held Jordan’s lifeline in her hands. Or in her heart. Or something. She didn’t know how it worked, really, but she knew enough to know not to fuck it up. She hoped. Because she was starting to like Jordan. For all the help she was giving, it was hard not to. How could she not be grateful for this second her, who was willing to pull so much weight? And how could she not be guilty for this second her, who could never be anyone else?

They’d talked about it, that first night. “We could say Jay had twins. Gave one up for adoption. And here I am, back to collect.”

Hennessy held her hand up to Jordan’s. Their tattoos matched.

“Sisterly bonding,” Jordan pitched.

“Psychopathy.”

“Fine. We could say you enrolled in a medical trial for some cash and I’m the first ever successful human clone.”

“Tattoos still aren’t DNA, bruv.”

“Fake amnesia, then. Just stumble in the front door and act like I don’t know my arse from my elbow.”

“And then what?”

Jordan didn’t have an answer. There just wasn’t one. Being alive was one thing but living was another. Social security numbers. Birth certificates. Surely there was someone who could fabricate these things for Jordan, but Hennessy didn’t know them or the cost.

For now, the maths was simple. Fifty-fifty. The Parent Trap, but permanent. If there was one thing Hennessy had learned from being an artist, it was that nobody looked at the product as closely as the creator did. No one would notice the discrepancies, the subtleties, not if she made sure there was plenty else to look at. If they blustered around enough, at just the right angle, they could pass as one person. 

So that’s what they did. From then on, they shared. Jordan got days — breakfast, school, classmates, success and a bright future. Hennessy got nights — out after dark, drinking in low-lit places, meeting strangers who would never become anything more than that. Even still, no matter how reckless the course, it was Hennessy who steered the life. Hennessy would get her hair done, get a new tattoo, go shopping, and Jordan would do just the same the next day. After that first night, they never spoke about the matching, and Hennessy had to wonder. Was it deference? Pity? Did she not dream Jordan a strong enough sense of self, or did they just naturally want the same things? There was no way to know but to ask, and Hennessy wasn’t willing to do that, because she knew she was a liar and couldn’t stand to know if Jordan was too.

Because they had differences. As the weeks turned to months, the gaps widened. Jordan liked school plays more, probably because she’d seen more of them. Jordan liked men more, probably because she had seen less of them. When Bill came in unannounced, Jordan preferred hiding under the bed than in the closet. Jordan tended to collect bits of trash in her pockets for Hennessy to find later and toss herself. Jordan slept. Jordan dreamt, if not at night (dreams didn’t dream, it seemed) then at least in the way that mattered, hopes and aspirations.

Hennessy didn’t. Passing eyes didn’t see it, could chalk it up to moods or moons. They had the same face, the same hair, the same shoulders. They wore the same size bra and the same size jeans. But their eyes were so different — Jordan’s bright and lifted up toward the stars, Hennessy’s never all the way open but never closed too long either. Their laughs were different — Hennessy’s more through her nose, Jordan’s more through her mouth. Their hearts were different, so so different — Jordan’s was a gift, new and shiny, still hungry; Hennessy’s had bites taken out of it.

Around everyone else, Jordan dulled herself enough to pass as Hennessy. She was made of the right stuff — she knew how to puff out exhaust fumes until everyone covered their mouths and averted their eyes. But when they were alone, their differences were clear enough to drown in.

It was May, and summer was breaking, and Jordan came home from the last day of school with a backpack full of sweets and cigarettes and a grin on her face.

Hennessy had been sleeping. Almost-sleeping. Whatever you could call the 20 minutes of shuteye she allowed herself after Internet research told her that it took longer than that to fall into REM sleep. She stopped sleeping when Jordan threw open the curtain and stretched out in the afternoon sun like a cat.

Instantly, Hennessy was annoyed. It was impossible not to be. She had four minutes left on her timer and she could’ve used those four minutes. But before she could snap at Jordan, Jordan said, “News.”

“News?”

She handed Hennessy their phone, proud, like she’d spent all day digging in the field and it had been very hard work but finally, finally, they had enough potatoes for a nice full dinner.

Hennessy squinted at it, rubbed her eyes. It was a contact screen. The name was ‘Benny.’ The picture was of a mild boy with a polo shirt. “This is news?”

Jordan snatched the phone back. “News. It’s new. He’s new, and he wanted me to go over to his house and watch movies. I called him stingy ‘cause that’s no date, and he said ‘Okay, fine’ and now he’s taking me to that new Japanese place down by school.”

Hennessy slow-clapped. “Wow. Skillful.”

“Listen, it’s hard to have game and learn maths at the same time. I’d like to see you try.”

“No thanks, I’m good.” Sometimes watching Jordan was painful, like watching a plant placed in a dark room. She could thrive, somewhere, somehow, but not here. Because how would it work? Jordan would go on a date with Benny. He’d buy her sushi and they’d hold hands and kiss and whatever else. And that’s all it would ever be. Because Jordan’s whole life was Hennessy. “You can keep the maths and this new boy thing. All yours.”

“What, you don’t like him?”

Hennessy made a face that was an answer.

Jordan rolled her eyes. “Japanese, though. And, Christ, he’s got great calves. Anyway. I’ll bring home leftovers and keep my eyes out. You can nab the next one.”

Hennessy had no trouble nabbing partners of her own. It’s just that they were not places Jordan knew to look, nor people Hennessy liked to talk about. They did not want to watch movies or take her out for Japanese. Hennessy wasn’t sure she would’ve liked them if they did. But it was sweet to the point of sickening that Jordan thought Hennessy could have that. Thought she deserved it.

That was the biggest difference. The thing that was hardest to stand.

Jordan was lovely. Hennessy couldn’t help but love her. And it just made her hate herself more. Because Jordan wanted so much. Art and music. Friends and lovers. A life, not just for herself but for both of them, not just a shared life but full lives for each.

And at the end of the day, all Hennessy really wanted was a good night’s sleep.

*

It was six months after Jay, after Jordan, but finally, Hennessy caved. Set her alarm for thirty minutes instead of twenty. It was just a test. Just to see.

She didn’t tell Jordan. She should’ve and she knew it, but to speak it aloud was to put pressure on it, to make it _something_. A success — to dream something else, bring something else back. A failure — manifest a demon and let it swallow her in the process.

If she succeeded, they could celebrate together. If she failed, they’d fail together too — Jordan would sleep where she stood. But she couldn’t stand to look Jordan in the face and tell her this might be it. Couldn’t stand to hear Jordan encourage her or believe in her.

Better she not know. Better to just get it over with. No fanfare, no police, no guns, just two Hennessys and then none. Quiet. The furthest thing from art she could imagine.

*

It was the same dream. The same choice. The nightmare, or her.

It was dark. Too dark to know if she’d won or lost. She reached out for her heartbeat, or for the nothingness.

The pain reached back and she was pulled into her body, caged in, locked and dungeoned. It was worse this time. There was more blood. More ringing. More spinning.

She pried her eyes open anyway.

There she was. Waiting for her.

Hennessy stuffed her fist into her mouth and bit, tasting rust and salt, waiting for tears. They didn’t come. Jordan did. Hennessy wondered if it was luck or twin-telepathy.

She corrected herself, the thoughts searing as they moved through her. Triplet-telepathy.

Jordan helped the new girl out of bed. “Hey,” she said, in a gentle voice Hennessy didn’t recognize, “Welcome to the club. It’s shit, but it’s fine.”

Towels. Water. Ibuprofen. Another rose on her throat, and another girl, looking at her with big sad eyes.

To live as two, fifty-fifty, was one thing; to live as three was another. Thirty percent of a life was a sliver. And if there were two girls now, there’d be more. How long until they became grainy and illegible, like scans of photocopies? Or would it go in reverse — they’d get more vibrant, more real, until Hennessy was just their shadow?

Jordan sent the new girl to the bathroom to splash water on her face and then crawled into bed beside Hennessy.

Through sweat-streaks and blotted blood, Hennessy said, “You’re staining our shirt.”

Jordan put her arms around her. “We’re gonna need to call her something.”

But Hennessy had no more names to give. Her mind flapped uselessly, helplessly, like a fly in a puddle.

“Summer,” Jordan pitched, “for the season she was born.”

Hennessy swallowed, stared at the calendar hanging on the wall. What if, a month from now, she fell asleep again, and it was still summer, and there was another needing a name? And there were only four seasons a year — what about when they ran out of those?

She touched her throat, felt the raw sting of fresh ink, another flower in the choker. Only room for ten, maybe eleven more.

Months would work, if it had to. But the thought of holding off the nightmare that many times, of holding off sleep for that long… A rumble started in her chest, cracking, spreading.

The new girl came back in the room. “You’re June,” Hennessy said, with her best authority, “and you’re me. This is Jordan. She’s me, too. You know this?”

June nodded. She seemed solemn, almost chastened. Like she was sorry for being alive.

And it was Hennessy’s fault. 

_Good_ , Hennessy thought. The cracks turned to splinters, shards. She was sorry too. Now she had two lives that would stop if hers did.

It was an earthquake, an avalanche. Her hands shook. Her throat trembled.

“Everybody leave me alone,” she said, rolling away from Jordan, adjusting the pillows. “Dreaming you bitches is hard work. I’m fucking knackered.”

Jordan sighed and got out of the bed, nodding June toward the door, and then she was alone. She buried her face in the pillow and screamed. It hurt — the tension of her muscles, the pitch in her mouth, the volume inside her head — and she screamed more. Louder. Harder. Til the splitting turned to sobs, tearless and wracking.

This was a nightmare. It was a nightmare when she slept, and a nightmare when she woke, and it wouldn’t stop until it killed her and all her girls.

Laying there alone, no other hers there to see, something inside of her peeled away like a leaf on a flower. Love-me, love-me-not, love-me-not, love-me-not. There was no win scenario. The only light at the end of the tunnel was the flash from the barrel of a gun.

Maybe Jay was onto something after all.

An hour later, Jordan shoved the door open and dragged June in by the wrist. 

“Who said you could come back?” Hennessy spat, meaner than she meant.

Jordan just waved a hand. “You don’t have to say it. I know you missed me.”

Three of them in the bed was a tight squeeze, but they managed. June lay on the outside, Jordan in the middle, Hennessy against the wall.

“We’re lucky Bill doesn’t pay attention,” Jordan said, “’cause we’re gonna start getting expensive to feed.”

“Should we start a football team or something?” Hennessy asked.

“Maybe tomorrow. For now we should watch TV. Catch June up on the soaps.”

June said, “Sure.”

Hennessy passed Jordan the remote. Jordan took Hennessy’s hand instead and didn’t let it go.

“Rest,” she said, instead of ‘Sleep.’

Hennessy dropped her head onto Jordan’s shoulder and shut her eyes. Rest. She could do that.

But she wasn’t going to sleep. Not now. Not ever again.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading! i hope you enjoyed it & would love to hear your thoughts!!
> 
> come cry about the raven kids with me on tumblr at [@gaybluesargent!](https://gaybluesargent.tumblr.com/)  
> (this fic is rebloggable [here](https://gaybluesargent.tumblr.com/post/189215159291/meet-hennessy)!)


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